


Stranger Than Kindness

by ClementineStarling



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22277764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: Jaskier puts his mouth to better use than singing...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 410





	Stranger Than Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> I was about to write: _Since Geralt is canonically bisexual there are mentions of straight sex in this fic_ but on second thought that was probably (lol) wishful thinking. ;) Anyway, if you find het off-putting, you've been warned.

A witcher is not a man. 

A witcher is more than a man and he is less at the same time.

Wherever he goes people let him feel that. They're afraid of what they do not understand and there's nothing they understand less than magic. To them, he's more like the monsters slays, more like the creatures of old, more like elves and dwarves than he is like them. And, at least in part, they're right: he isn't human. Not really. 

He is faster than any mere mortal, stronger, even without his potions. He can see in the dark; he is immune to most forms of sickness; he heals faster than any normal human would. No man could do what he does.

But his powers come at a price. 

They say witchers have no hearts, that they're callous and aloof, unaffected by the burden and bliss of human emotions. But it's not the only regard in which they're lacking. 

Geralt sometimes thinks, it might have been a precaution to render them sterile more than an unfortunate side-effect of their alchemist treatment – if they weren't, what would stop them from marrying princesses, siring sons and daughters, building dynasties and empires? 

What man would not strive for that sort of power, for that kind of legacy?

But Geralt, like all of his kind, is only half a man in that regard. He is fully functional, technically, but he can never have children, will never have a family of his own. He won't settle down, he won't know a home, he will not die in his own bed at old age, surrounded by his grandchildren. However appealing the prospect, it's a life that's not for him and he's made his peace with that. 

It definitely helps that there are some perks to his deficiency, too. Women seem to like it. The ones that dare approach him, that is. To them, he is safe. If not in all aspects then at least in one: he won't get them with child, no matter how careless they are, or how often they choose to indulge in sexual congress with him, and that lack of potential consequences proves a powerful aphrodisiac.

It also helps that, scars aside, he is easy on the eye. He might not be as pretty as Jaskier, or as well-mannered, but he still can't complain about a lack of interest. And it's not as if he doesn't appreciates the attention. Most times he works so hard for so little gratitude, it feels only right that for once, there's something good that simply falls into his lap. 

He lost count of how many virtuous maids sneaked into his bedchamber over the years to get a first taste of pleasure, or how many middle-aged women rode him with abandon, using him as if he was their toy. And he quite enjoys watching them, how eagerly they climb over him, straddling him, sliding down on his thick, long cock with nothing else on their mind than how good he feels inside them, how perfectly he stretches them open. Shamelessly they stroke their slick, tight pussies on his girth and length, their breathing wet and ragged as they rise up and down above him, their tits bouncing, their hair like silk around their shoulders.

All he has to do is take hold of their hips and guide them into a rhythm, and soon they will beg him to come for them, to come inside them, fill them up with his dead, infertile seed as if it's some sort of magical potion or lucky charm. Perhaps it's superstition, perhaps only the fact their pleasure is untainted by the risk of pregnancy for once, but they're strangely insistent he spill inside them.

Even whores don't bargain for finishing him off with their hands or their mouths, but fuck him without reserve and with genuine pleasure, something most men would appreciate, but after a while Geralt finds he develops an appetite for a different sort of sexual act. He misses getting head here and there and while he could always ask for it – after all he pays good coin for the service – he's somehow reluctant to do so.

Lucky for him, he has a friend who's quite accomplished with his mouth and only too eager to use it, not merely for singing and talking and drinking, but for all kinds of fun endeavours.

“We poets have to know about everything,” Jaskier said the first time he sucked him off as if such an act required explanations, and Geralt would have raised an eyebrow in question if at that point he had not already been used to the bard's habit of voicing pretty much every thought that crosses his mind without filter or hesitation. 

If Geralt is a man of few words, Jaskier is his exact opposite. He likes to talk. He likes to talk a lot. Sometimes a bit too much for his own good, Geralt thinks, but as the saying goes: opposites attract. And if he's being honest most times he finds Jaskier's incessant chatter quite endearing.

Not to say, he doesn't value his other oral talents just as much and never more than at night when they've found themselves a nice room at an inn and the flames flicker happily in the fireplace. 

It's one of those evenings, when Geralt lies down on the bed after a long, hard day. Drowsy, his mind slow and languid with wine and his limbs heavy from a hot bath, his eyes flutter shut and he would have fallen asleep moments after his back hit the mattress if not for Jaskier's attentions.

Geralt groans as the bard laps at his balls with relish, dragging his warm, wet tongue over the delicate skin of his sac. His left hand resting on Geralt's thigh, he uses two fingers of his right to press firmly against a spot behind the scrotum. More pleasant warmth floods through Geralt's body. 

Fuck, it does feel like a reward. 

“For saving me. Again,” Jaskier explained as he crawled over him on the bed, and when Geralt tried to protest he refused to listen. “You deserve a treat,” he said pushing him gently back into the pillows, “Now lie still and enjoy.” And he started trailing open-mouthed kisses down Geralt's chest and stomach which shut him up rather quickly.

He can't deny Jaskier's good at this. He plays him like he plays his lute, every touch striking the right chord. When he replaces his tongue with his lips and nips gently at one of his balls, Geralt's legs give an involuntary twitch.

Promptly, the fingers of Jaskier's left hand tighten on his thigh, digging into the muscle with surprising strength. 

“Steady,” he says as if he's talking to Roach and Geralt snorts, not unlike his mare, but does his best to do what he's told and lie still, keeping his legs open to grant Jaskier full access. It isn't too easy, given the slightly uncomfortable sensation of Jaskier's fingernails still digging into his thigh and the overwhelmingly pleasurable feeling of his mouth on his balls.

He isn't used to giving up control like that. Letting girls ride him is different. It's mostly them who lose themselves in the sensation, coming undone while they fuck themselves on his cock, tension building and building until it snaps. It never feels as though he couldn't be in charge if he wanted to.

Only now it feels exactly like that – as if he's relinquishing control. He is expected to lie back and take whatever's bestowed upon him without getting a say in it. Jaskier gives him a gift of pleasure, selfless for the most part, but he acts on his terms, not Geralt's. And it is strange. Unsettling.

He tenses up again as Jaskier curls his tongue around his balls in a most wicked fashion. Pleasure shoots up his spine and his cock gives a little jerk where it lies on his stomach. For a few seconds it defies gravity, rising up, bouncing, once, twice, three times, as clear fluid drips from the slit in the cockhead onto the hard muscles of his belly.

He doesn't have to glance down to know what he looks like – his cock huge and hard and flushed with blood, rosy against the pallor of his stomach and the dark curls of his pubic hair, the pearly droplets of precome a mess on his belly. A picture of debauchery, and not for the first time either.  
Jaskier tends to work hard at getting him into this state, and he never tires of describing the result to him in loving, mouthwatering detail. Not a day goes by that he doesn't mention how much he enjoys seeing Geralt like that; he talks about it over breakfast, lunch, dinner, or simply when walking down a dirt road, and by bedtime at the latest, Geralt is ready to give in and let him have what he wants. 

Probably Geralt has to call himself lucky Jaskier doesn't write songs about his private parts and present them to the general public – an ode to his dick. That would be something. But even so, Jaskier leaves no doubt about how much he adores Geralt's cock and how much he loves sucking it.

If only he _would_ suck it, for fuck's sake. 

Geralt suppresses a most undignified sound when Jaskier shifts his attention away from his balls and drags his tongue up from his sac to the underside of his erection, licking a wet stripe up to the most sensitive spot just beneath the crown. There he pauses, his breath cool on the damp, heated skin, while Geralt's cock twitches, precome trickling down onto his stomach. 

Geralt's fingers itch with the urge to grab Jaskier's hair, to pull him closer, down onto his cock, but the tenderness of the bard's touches don't warrant such roughness. He doesn't want to appear ungrateful for what he is given, and he doesn't want to be greedy. 

All in good time, he tells himself, his fingers tangle into the sheets instead of Jaskier's hair, desperate for something to hold on to, the linen creaking under the strain. He holds his breath in anticipation of what's to come (Jaskier's warm, wet, eager mouth closing around his cock, sucking it deep into that delightful tight heat) but nothing happens.

“What are you waiting for?” His voice is even deeper than usual, rougher, like gravel, a metallic glitter to it, charcoal granite and the gleam of steel in the dark. He doesn't sound like someone you want to leave waiting but Jaskier is unperturbed. 

“Don't rush me, Geralt,” he says. “Let me enjoy the sight for a bit.”

Grudgingly, Geralt opens his eyes. After the calming dark behind his lids the room is too bright for his sensitive eyes. It takes a second for his vision to adjust.

Jaskier is leaning over him, cheeks flushed, a dreamy expression on his face. He looks up just the moment Geralt's gaze falls on him. Striking blue eyes and rosy lips twisting into a smile, and Geralt is caught for a moment by surprise about how pretty he is. How pretty he finds him. 

And while he still contemplates what odd a thought this is, Jaskier sticks out his tongue and without averting his eyes, lowers his head and swipes it up from the root of Geralt's cock right to the crown. 

Pleasure pulls tight in Geralt's belly and a low sound escapes his throat, half groan, half gasp.

Jaskier, with a victorious grin, does it again, licks up the whole length of Geralt's shaft to the pink bulbous head. This time he flicks his tongue over the tip, lapping up the drops of precome gathering there, eliciting a curse from Geralt.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and when Jaskier makes no move to follow through and finally suck his cock, “You better stop teasing me, bard.”

“Or?” Jaskier says with a mocking undertone that's impossible to overhear. “What are you going to do, o mighty witcher?”

With a growl Geralt gives in to his urge at last, pushes his fingers into Jaskier's lush, silky hair and grabbing a handful he pulls hard, causing Jaskier to make a stifled sound somewhere between a laugh and an expression of pain. 

“That what you're aiming for?” Geralt bites out, trying to fight down the sudden wave of violence swelling inside him, mingling with what a few moments ago was just sweet, benign pleasure.

He already knows the answer of course. Jaskier has become quite accomplished at manipulating him, lowering his guard with gentle, affectionate touches only to spring something on him that will turn the tables, some sort of challenge or insult to provoke him. They're both aware of Geralt's feral side, the black-eyed, relentless beast that lies dormant inside him unless it is summoned to slay a monster. It's dangerous, but, to Geralt's chagrin, Jaskier loves this particular sort of danger. The last time he managed to lure it out he wore the bite marks and finger-shaped bruises for weeks, red and purple, yellow and blue like flowers under his skin. 

Geralt doesn't like being played for a fool, but he doesn't like being left rock-hard and leaking by a damn cocktease either, so what else can he do but indulge Jaskier's whims? He sits up a little and without letting go of the bard's hair, shoves his head towards his cock, his hand heavy, his grip like iron. 

“Now finish what you started,” he says gruffly, and Jaskier finally – _finally_ – complies.

If Geralt had the shadow of a doubt about Jaskier's willingness it would disappear the moment his cock slides into his mouth. The bard moans when he gets the first proper taste of him, and it's such a wanton little noise Geralt's dick jolts in response. 

He uses his hold on Jaskier's hair to guide him further down onto his cock and Jaskier lets himself be led. He wraps his lips firmly around the thick, hard flesh and pressing his tongue against the underside, slides them down the length of Geralt's cock as far as he can, until the gag reflex stops him. He chokes, yet tries again and again to swallow him down, and Geralt knows he can do it, he's done it before. He fucked his throat so thoroughly one time Jaskier could hardly speak for a week, let alone sing, and even though it was fun while it lasted – for both of them, no less – it seems terribly cruel to repeat the feat.

There's no need to be too rough with him, not now when they're both getting what they want – Geralt a warm worshipful mouth around his cock and Jaskier the guidance he craves. 

Geralt loosens his grip on Jaskier's hair a little, rubbing circles into his temple, gently, soothingly, while he sets a steadier, shallower pace. 

“That's it,” he sighs as Jaskier's head is bobbing up and down over his lap, sucking at him as eagerly as if he's never tasted anything as good as witcher-cock.

As they fall into a rhythm Geralt closes his eyes again. He doesn't have to watch Jaskier to be aware how lovely he looks, with his large blue eyes and dark lashes and tousled hair, his soft lips wrapped around Geralt's massive cock. 

“Good boy,” he mutters stroking Jaskier's hair, “such a good boy.” 

A shudder of pleasure runs through Jaskier at the praise and he doubles his efforts, making his mouth nice and wet for him, his lips a firm ring pressing against the sides of Geralt's erection and his tongue as worshipful as he can. It feels heavenly. Perfect.

He will have to pay him back for this, Geralt thinks. Return the favour or fulfil one of his fantasies. Be the grumpy, growling brute he seems to fancy so much, bend him over a table or take him against a tree, rough him up a little if he wants. But not now. Now he just wants to enjoy himself a bit before drifting off to sleep.

He concentrates on the pleasant heaviness between his legs, the sensual ache, the tension that's rising with every lick of Jaskier's tongue, with every suck, every slow, firm slide of his lips along his throbbing cock. A spring is being wound inside Geralt, tighter and tighter. Stardust twinkles in the dark behind his lids, shivers are dancing over his skin, sparks crawling up his spine.

Jaskier must be feeling he's getting close. He wraps his fingers around Geralt's shaft, adding some more friction, spreading his spit all the way down to the base of his cock and up again, meeting his lips, covering the whole length of Geralt's dick. 

Geralt sucks in a sharp breath. Fuck, that feels good. 

Without meaning to, he tightens his grasp on Jaskier's hair again, and the bard moans around his cock, the humming sound almost too much. He sucks harder, the strokes of his hand firmer, more purposeful and suddenly everything goes very fast – Geralt's balls pull up against his body, his erection swelling a little more and then the orgasm explodes like stars behind his eyes. His hips bucking, he thrusts his cock deep into Jaskier's mouth while he holds him in place, mindless, dazed, for a few heartbeats pure animal, pumping his seed down the bard's throat.

It's only when the waves of bliss are fading that he realizes what he's doing, that poor Jaskier is struggling for breath. He loosens his grip on the bard and he comes up like a drowning man gasping for air. The black of his pupils almost blot out the blue, his cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen. But he doesn't look unhappy. Not at all in fact. His eyes are gleaming and his mouth twists into a slightly manic grin. 

“So what do you say, witcher?”

A smile tugs the corners of Geralt's mouth when he answers, “A very nice reward.” 

Jaskier beams at him. “You think?”

“Hmmm.” Geralt reaches out and grabs the bard by the collar of his shirt that – for some stupid reason – he's still wearing and pulls him into a kiss. 

Jaskier's mouth is as soft as it looks, warm and ripe and salty with seed. Their tongues slide together, slick, electrifying and Jaskier makes a wet, wanton sound in the back of his throat, his hands scrabbling at Geralt's chest, at his shoulders, useless, desperate, searching for something to hold on to. But he doesn't have to, Geralt has a firm hold on him, clutching his neck and his jaw and the back of his skull, keeping him in place while he licks into his mouth, swallowing every little moan and whimper like the finest of wine. He kisses Jaskier until he's lapped up every last trace of his own pleasure, until the bard is breathless and boneless, melting against him, palms pressed against his chest.

“Geralt!” His name hardly more than a gasp, a moan, but Geralt only hums, a rumble like thunder, deep in his chest, and runs a large hand down Jaskier's stomach to where his erection tents the loose shirt. There's a wet spot on the fine linen where Jaskier's cock pushes against it. 

Geralt clicks his tongue at the sight. “Look at you, buttercup,” he breathes into Jaskier's ear, voice low and husky, and grabs him through the fabric, rubbing his thumb over the stain. “Look at the mess you've made of your fine shirt.”

There's nothing left of Jaskier's usual chattiness or eloquence. He just makes another incoherent noise that sounds almost tortured when Geralt takes hold of him and gives him a firm first pull. His hips buck, desperate for more friction. 

“Geralt, please–” he whines, pressing up into his fist, and Geralt decides the damn shirt has to go. At once. He resists the temptation to rip it apart. He's aware of the price of a good shirt, and this one is still in impeccable condition. It would be a terrible waste to destroy it. 

He wills his hands to be patient and gentle as he peels the bard out of the garment and flings it aside, then takes a moment to appreciate the view. Jaskier is even prettier when he's aroused, his skin flushed and glowing with a faint sheen of sweat like finest satin. Geralt's eyes follows the dark dusting of hair from his collarbone down to his sternum where it thins out and disappears, only to show up again below the navel, pointing towards a very hard, very eager erection. What a lovely sight.

Jaskier's cock jerks under his gaze, another dewy drop of precome running down the shaft, and while Geralt could watch this for days without getting bored, he doesn't want to be unnecessarily cruel – one desperate, broken _Please_ is all it takes to finally reach out and close his fingers around Jaskier's stiff hot flesh, squeezing. The cock gives a little twitch in response just as Jaskier makes the most wonderful, strangled sound and buries his face in the crook of Geralt's neck.

He'd love to drag it out, tease his bard a little, just like Jaskier teased him, but he's too tired, it's late and there's always tomorrow. They could fuck before breakfast, or after, or both, whatever they like. But now, now he wants to see Jaskier come all over his fingers and then he wants to go to sleep.

A series of determined strokes, Jaskier's breath damp and ragged against his neck, Geralt's fist slippery with precome moving up and down Jaskier's cock with just the right pressure at just the right pace. It doesn't take long until the bard goes rigid against him with a guttural sound of pleasure, then the hot, slick rush of come over his hand, waves and waves of it, accompanied by shudders and moans and then it's finally over.

Tangled into each other as they are, they slump down onto the mattress. Geralt wipes his hand clean on the sheets before he gently reaches up to play with Jaskier's hair, stroking it, enjoying its feathery softness between his fingers.

“If you want something you can always ask,” he mumbles drowsily, just before he drifts off to sleep. “You do know that, don't you?”

The bard snuggles up against him like a kitten, lazy and sated, and instead of an answer merely hums and presses his lips against Geralt's shoulder, and soon they're both fast asleep. 

__


End file.
